


Like Home

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Charbitch, Charlie POV, Happy Ending, M/M, grilled charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: That doesn’t seem right. Why is Doc apologizing to him? When he….Charlie’s breathing faster, quick little intakes through his nose, the smoky stench curling up at the back of his throat. He reads them over again, mouthing the words out, inadvertently smiling at the incorrect letters he catches now. The bus shakes him, roles him down the street or snaps his head towards the unforgiving embrace of the wall beside him. He smacks the side where Mac punched him like three times and each time he winces, curls his hand up by his side, and then forgets and softens and goes back to the texts.---Charlie knows Doc is mad at him and he runs away from home so he doesn't have to deal with it. Turns out it's a shitty time without his boyfriend.





	Like Home

It smells.

He’s always known it smells, yes. Obviously. He’s not _stupid_ , but he just lived in it for so long that it just became a part of him. A part of _them_. Olfactory senses will put up with a lot of shit. That’s something he’s learned. He learned it seeped into his bones and they had no shower to speak of so scrubbing himself with an old dishcloth and using the sink in the bathroom was his best bet, of course, and also….

And also….

And also coming back is so much harder than he thought it was going to be.

Charlie carefully toes a cinderblock in front of the door to help lock it before he tiptoes across the grungy carpet. The overwhelming scent of cat food knocks his stomach and he has to hold his hand over his mouth while he slips off his sneakers. He doesn’t even bother with changing into pajamas. They’re not here. This is a runaway mission and he sees the familiar lump splayed out on that old pullout sofa bed, round belly gleaming in the strained moonlight through their window. Same window Frank fell out of and through a portal that took him back to 2006, actually. Stupid. The memory is stupid. Tainted with hindsight that Frank was in fact super injured and there are no such thing as magical time portals and all that’s out that window is cement, glass, and about fifty feral cats all yowling at each other.

Maybe he _should_ have some cat food before getting into bed…..

But…Doc would be mad…..

Doc _is_ mad.

Doc isn’t even _here_.

Charlie claps a second hand over his mouth and bows in half, feeling a stabbing pain go through his guts. This isn’t stomach rot or a physical punch or poison. This is just the pain of guilt, of getting in trouble and watching Doc get so mad, so so mad and knowing it was his fault and he couldn’t fix it. Of running. Back to the only home he figured he could substantially stay at again.

Frank snorts against the pillow. He’s hogged the good one, which obviously makes sense. Charlie checks his shoes again, crouching down over his knees to play with the laces. He tips them together, batting them back and forth like some lazy cat. But his knees are getting tired and he’s brain tired and the world is screaming outside the window and he thinks maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow. Just get some sleep and let it all blow over. Maybe he can get to work and drown it in brown, right? Right? Haha ha.

Charlie doesn’t laugh. He grins, because he makes himself grin, because he can do that, whatever, people like it better when he grins. He makes himself stand, brushes off his shirt and he slides up onto the lumpy mattress next to Frank. He’s used to wrapping himself around…well, around a _body._ Around Doc’s—okay, but he’s not gonna spoon Frank. He holds his arms across his chest and curls up, smashing his nose into the mattress. Tears and snot can just be another stain, so what. It’s muffled and so stupid? But Charlie’s not silent either and Frank turns over again, holding a knife against Charlie’s back. Charlie groans.

“Knock it off, Frank.” His voice is all stuffed up and gross, same as his face feels all stuffed up and gross. Grinning didn’t stop this. Hiding might help; it’s dark and it’s loud it’s fine. It was fine. It is fine.

Those oddly big tough hands start working over Charlie’s shoulder. They creep, feeling blindly, gripping hard at safe points like his elbow or his shoulder. It’s almost affectionate. It is, actually, when Frank hugs Charlie, the steak knife temporarily lost between them.

“Charlie!”

Frank’s compact like Charlie’s compact— _like father like son, if only if only if only_ —and he wraps him up tight. The weight of Frank against his back makes Charlie feel both safe and alienated and like his skin’s full of bugs and his stomach’s full of rats and both groups of critters are trying to get out of him. He smashes his fists into his eyeballs and cries and cries and cries. Doc let him cry. Said it was good for him or something. It feels like stealing, like he’s not allowed to do that anymore, with people around and shit.

Frank doesn’t say anything else. Kinda nice of him, for a change. He doesn’t pet Charlie’s hair, which would be too much, really. He doesn’t ask why Charlie’s even there. To Frank, it’s just how it’s supposed to be. Maybe. Maybe Charlie doesn’t know what Frank’s thinking and he curls up tighter, bawling into against his wrists. He notices a sticky spot on his skin and the fact he’s still got stuff on him makes him want to shout. He doesn’t. He’s quiet and crying, that’s what he is. Frank pats his shoulder twice more.  He wriggles back to get something and finally returns with the good pillow, working it under Charlie’s head. He hugs him once more and yelps, rolling away when the steak knife jabs his leg between them.

Look, blood is one of the most common stains on the filthy old bed, right up there with sweat. It’s not a big deal. It just is. And it’s not even bad. It is bad, but it isn’t if Charlie just smooshes it down and pretends this is what it always is and always will be and it’s fine. Doc’s mad at him and it’s fine.

“I think I’m bleeding,” Frank hisses in this weirdly soft worried voice he gets when he’s almost certainly trying to manipulate someone or when he’s sort’ve freaked out. It could be both, given the moment. Maybe he thinks he needs to manipulate Charlie to stay? Maybe he thinks he’s gonna die. It doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, no, man, you probably definitely are.”

Charlie’s head hurts. He has to stop crying already. _Jesus_.

Frank makes a little grunt and deflating noise as he grips his leg. Something, such a tiny something that somebody with bad hearing could never hear it if they weren’t strained and taught with the stress of everything that has happened that they think they could hear a fly whisper it’s final filthy confessions on the sink, if Charlie wasn’t ready to goddamn snap, that _something_ falls to the bed.

“Did you pull the knife out?”

Without a beat, Frank answers, “I pulled it out.”

“How’d it get stuck in there? You barely moved.”

“I bought a new knife-set recently. Really good deal too. These things would slice your finger off without any problem. Guaranteed.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because I chipped the last one on the drywall.”

“On the drywall? Christ, Frank, we have the toolbox right under the—”

“I don’t know where that thing is.”

“It’s right there!”

“The green box?”

“The green box, Frank!”

“Oh. Yeah, no.” The bed squeaks under them as Frank shakes his head and waves his free arm, negating Charlie’s comment. “No, got rid of those.”

“Wh—”

No. Nope! The question is as pointless as the answer. As pointless as why Frank was digging in the drywall. As pointless as prying them out of this garbage and derangement. As pointless as pretending he could get to stay with Doc forever and ever and.

“I’ll get the kit,” Charlie finally says through his gross stuffed up nose.

He stumbles his way through the apartment until he finds the old metal M*A*S*H* lunch pail where they keep a few band aids, a roll of used gauze, tiny nail scissors Charlie lifted from a convenience store, needle, thread, half-used lighter, and one cotton swab. There’s a huge bottle of peroxide next to it.

He was right. Frank’s dumb knife wound isn’t _that_ bad. Charlie and Frank and everything? They’d been through worse.

Charlie almost kisses Frank’s leg after he smooths out the bandage, remembering a time Doc got a little “abrasion” on his knee after he fell on campus. Charlie scrunches up his face and crumbles up his self and just stays there, this tight little angry ball of filth. Frank’s hand briefly touches Charlie’s head before Charlie slaps it away.

“Go to bed, Frank.”

“Where’re you going?”

“I dunno, man.” Charlie’s already headed to the door again. He wasn’t ready to sleep. That’s okay. That’s not the worst thing.

“But you just got here!” Frank grunts again, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He growls, low and gravely, and grips his thigh. Literally not that bad, but, okay. It probably stings. Probably. “Damn it, shit, damn it.”

“I’m going to the bar,” Charlie finally announces, reaching for an empty hook on the door. None of his sweaters are here. He forgot his trusty army jacket back at the apartment. Charlie’s fist balls up tighter, hand meat white and red and, well, fine. Fine! He puts on his shoes and he’s right back out before Frank manages to finally stand up.

-

Charlie really is tired. Actually tired. Not fake tired or drunk tired or angry-shouting-breaking-things tired. He just…really wants a bed. He thinks for a second about barging over to Dee’s apartment and crashing on her couch, but that’s another walk and the buses stopped running and he just can’t do it, man. He stands in the bar, dead center, arms draped at his side, staring at something or everything or nothing.

It kinda smells in here, too. Doesn’t it? Stale beer, almost sweet rot, dusty mouse traps and forgotten cheese and the almost hint of chemicals. Charlie sighs and scrubs his hand under his nose a few times, scratching his finger with his moustache.

He could sleep in one of the booths? But they smell sort’ve like engine oil and foreign human sweat. He could go up into the vents, into that special secret room with all the broken glass? There’s a bundle of blankets in there. It gets nice and warm and hums when the air ticks on and a metal womb sounds really nice and protective, but climbing sounds like a bitch right now and the idea of navigating through the hazardous wasteland scattered in front of said nest reminds him of Doc gently leading him to bed when he’s this dead tired on his feet and tucking him in and kissing the side of his head and there he goes again. Jesus Christ, man, leaking like a faucet!

Charlie finally moves. He goes from idle to active, a video character suddenly turned on with the goal of getting to the back office. He’s wiping his eyes on his forearms. The door locks. Chair’s tucked away in the corner. He puts his feet up on the desk and pretends he’s in a hammock on the beach, which isn’t something he’s ever experienced but movies and shit make it look peaceful. The beach is nice. The course wet sand through his fingers, getting to see a bunch of mangy mutts who just want a little love too, finding treasure, listening to the waves, the fireworks, the wind. He wraps his arms around his chest and closes his eyes, sinking into his imagination, pretending he’s got someone nice leaning against him and telling him it’s alright in that gentle accent of his. _It’s alright, dear boy_.

“Dear boy,” Charlie mutters to himself and shakes his head because it’s just sorta stupid but it’s nice when Doc says it because it’s not stupid then, it’s actually really lovely. It’s just really nice and safe and then he’s out for the rest of the night, dreaming of ocean waves of sand and giant steak knives stabbing the sky and a big red sun that keeps shouting in the distance, “ _You’re filth! I can’t deal with you, Charlie! Just go!”_

-

Someone knocks on the door. No, that sounds too nice.

Someone _pounds_ on the door.

“Oooooohhh….” Charlie unfolds himself from the seat, his arms and legs flopping uselessly as gravity demands they do. All his joints feel tingly and dead and ache and he’s reminded he’s fucking forty, dude, he can’t just sleep in an office chair and call it a night? He needs a fucking bed!

Why isn’t he in bed?

“Okay, okay, _okay_ ,” he answers as whoever this _ass_ hole is keeps jiggling the handle. He shuffles over and undoes the lock in time for Mac to pop his head in.

“Oh, good, it’s just you,” Mac says, relaxing a little in his relief. He pushes his stupid gross hot body into the office and closes it just as quickly, resting his back against the door.

“Uh, what’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Holding the door?” Charlie asks and rubs his head. “Can you move? I gotta go take a leak.”

“Right now?” Mac whines, glancing over his shoulder. Like he can see through the wall? Like he’s an idiot. Charlie huffs and crosses his arms. “Dude, I just got in here. Can you wait, like, a second?”

“No, man. I gotta pee.”

“C’mon, just one second,” Mac tries again.

“Not one second. I’m gonna piss myself here.”

“Just one second.” And Mac repeats himself as Charlie repeats himself, both of them slightly shoving against each other, old childhood-style wrestling that doesn’t mean anything.

“Get outta my way!” Charlie howls. Mac grabs his shirt and instantly recoils, holding his palm up like he’s been burned.

“Oh, dude, is that shit on your shirt?”

Charlie glances down, pulls the fabric away from his chest, and frowns instantly.

“No. It’s just choclate sauce, you dick. Listen, I really gotta go, dude, I just woke up, okay?” He shoves Mac again, almost touches the door. Does touch the door, in fact.

“You just woke up?” Mac looks like he’s slowly coming into the conversation, like he’s realizing Charlie is a fucking person or something and paying his agency some attention or whatever. Whatever! The concern, and it’s barely any concern, actually, because Mac’s a fucking dick sometimes if the whole situation isn’t about his precious fucking Dennis he’s fawning over, but the concern starts to melt off him and he laughs. It’s not even a mean laugh. It is, though, unintentionally or not, when Mac asks, “You slept here? Why? Doc kick you out or something?”

Generally speaking, none of them are above striking each other. Physical reminders of space, of being, of just letting off some fucking steam is common amongst the gang. There’s just this little primal thing in all of them that’s learned from their general lives that this is the best way to finish communications. Start communications, too. Words are _hard._ Instead, they hug, they hit, they bite, they yell; an attribute that is commonly shared amongst all of them. The twins might be more prone to yelling. Mac might be more prone to getting into someone’s space. Charlie bites. It just is and it’s fine and it’s also alarming when one of them suddenly cracks and lashes out at the others after what was apparently an innocent enough question.

Charlie curls his arm back and drives his elbow hard into Mac’s face.

Later, sure, later he’ll think _holy shit, I think I broke Mac’s nose?_ He didn’t. He’s done it before, but this isn’t then. And later later he’ll think _what the fuck is_ wrong _with me?_ And later later later he’ll think _nothing_ because the moment will be forgotten, like many moments.

Mac cries out and pulls his hand up to hide his face, shoving Charlie back. Charlie retaliates by going for Mac’s throat and chest, making his hand into claws instead of fists, and then fists instead of claws, just trying to get through the man. He earns a fist to the side of his head as retaliation, absolutely fair, and Charlie knees Mac’s junk, absolutely not fair. Still, it makes him collapse and another time someone might find that funny—does Dennis have this place bugged with those little cameras? It’d been a while since Charlie did his general sweep of the corners for the tiny flea-like fixtures. If he is, he could add a laugh track here and it would be some compelling television, man. Who doesn’t love a kick to the groin? Nobody—but right now it frees up Charlie to get outside and rush towards the bathroom where he doesn’t have to pee anymore, really, but he wants the sanctuary of walls tight in on him like plastic wrap and candy wrappers and coffin walls and he wants to tuck his head between his legs and hold his head onto his body before it shoots off like a bottle rocket and he’ll just breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe some more. He’ll do that. He holds the growing red spot by his eye and almost makes it to the bathroom door when someone shouts for his attention.

“Have you seen Ron?”

Charlie keeps walking, but he turns like the great old Sasquatch on the prowl, right, holding his head, all fuzzy and quick through his natural habitat of the bar, to give this _guy_ a look. A look that’s scrunched up and confused and sorta pissed off.

“Ron?” Charlie shoots the name back, scoffing. He keeps walking, staring this guy down, this big dude who probably goes to the gym and has slick back hair and big bold blue eyes and a stupid nice polo shirt. He stares this asshole down, holding his aching head, and slams his way into the bathroom at last. Goddamn victory.

“Charlie? Wait, come back!” Mac’s voice comes in and out with the swing of the bathroom door. “Oh, hey….” Charlie’s too far inside, the doors shut. He misses the rest of Mac’s words, perhaps a name? Who the fuck cares. He misses them, that’s the point, and gets into one of the stalls like he wanted, sits down, and shoves his feet against the door.

He stares at the graffiti. Someone’s put up another crude message about the “twink” who serves drinks here. He hopes they mean Dennis because a) okay, Charlie doesn’t serve drinks, and Mac doesn’t serve drinks and b) wasn’t he supposed to be a twunk? A versatile power bottom? No, that’s too much credit, you can’t keep up with a versatile power bottom, that’s too much power. A bottom-leaning otter? Orangutan? Wolf. Pup, maybe. Bull? Bull…dog?

Charlie licks the pad of his thumb and starts smudging the ink on the wall, muttering various colloquial gay terms to himself, half-understood phrases they’d picked up from god knows where. He eventually gets up, still arguing with himself, and fetches a bucket and rag from under the sinks, dumping bleach into said bucket. He returns to start scrubbing the latrine, as it were. Not that’d call it that. That’s, like, a nice way of saying it. He knows they call it that from army movies, but he can’t help but hear it in that soft, soft accent again. Like the voice is following him.

Somewhere along while Charlie’s cleaning the bathroom he’s morphed his own debate into if it would be cooler to be a werewolf who turned into a big wolf or a werewolf who turned into a cheetah, because he’d heard that was part of the myths somewhere and he was so close to deciding a cheetah would be really cool, right, because of the spots, when some old old dude with leather skin and leather clothes came in to throw up in the urinal.

“Yeah, thanks,” Charlie says, watching him. “No, don’t wash your hands, of course. Why would you, right? Yeah, bye.” And he waves miserably when the dude waves to him, rolling his eyes. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the ugly tang of vomit and bleach and the general stank of mold stuck in this place that coats his tongue. He eyes the bleach bucket, tempted to stick his head in it and inhale. Been a while…. “Right. Right, clean it up, Charlie. Just clean it up.”

He does.

He does because he has pride in his job, even if this place doesn’t have pride in him. He does because, whatever, he just has to and probably always will. He does because it’s a distraction and because he thinks he kinda deserves it.

“ _You’re filthy!_ ”

He is. He is. He really is.

-

“I mean, I’m not saying we paint the interior red to make it go faster, but tell me that wouldn’t make you feel like it was going faster?”

“Yeah, no, I hear you. But if you even so much as _look_ at a paint can, Mac, I swear to god.”

“I’m saying it’ll introduce credibility to the whole thing,” Mac says, trying to reason with Dennis behind the bar. He’s rolling his hands through the air, coaxing his thoughts into the other man’s head when, almost entirely, it’s the other way around. “It puts us ahead of the competition.”

“Competition? Competition. Mac, nobody is doing this, alright?”

“Doing what?” Charlie asks, reluctantly stepping into the conversation.

He’s managed to avoid everyone for the rest of the day, slugging around the bar with his tools and checking off a few items on his list that he should have gotten to a long time ago, like scrubbing the grout or rewiring the lights— _again_ —over the right side of the bar or scraping that weird brown stuff under the third table there in the back. Some of it flaked onto his face. It kinda burned? But, whatever, he was filthy, wasn’t he? He just brushed it off and, okay, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter like how it didn’t matter his eye had finally swollen half-way shut from Mac punching him or it didn’t matter how he was wearing yesterday’s clothes and maybe he’d wear them into tomorrow too, why not? Not like he had any to spare, right? Could he get his jacket back? Nope. It didn’t matter because he didn’t matter.

“This doesn’t concern you, little man,” Dennis says, maybe trying to be playful in that dickish way he does. He splays his fingers towards Charlie’s face in a dismissive manner.

“We’re trying to start up a car service for the bar.”

“A taxi thing?” Charlie asks, stepping closer despite Dennis’ needless aggressive display. Dennis squints and purses his lips.

“Mm, more like an Uber.”

“Or Lyft,” Mac interjects.

“Yeah, right. Because Lyft has better social credence than Uber at the moment.”

“Right,” Mac agrees with a firm nod. Something they’ve previously discussed and, miraculously, agreed on. “But we were thinking—”

“That it doesn’t matter,” Dennis interjects, tightening his jaw and his words.

“—that we do a service exclusive to Paddy’s that’s guaranteed fast and reliable service.”

“…Fast,” Charlie repeats slowly, picking out the word amongst all the others and slowly plodding it back to what he had eavesdropped on earlier.

“You make it sound like a cell service plan,” Dennis mutters, irritated by Mac’s pitch. But Mac claps his hands together and points at Dennis.

“We could have chargers for all the clients, right? All set up, so everyone can plug in while we race them to wherever.”

“Wherever? We’re racing them to Paddy’s. To the pub, Mac, to the _pub._ Because we’re trying to get more _customers_ , Mac. See, I think you’re losing sight of the entire plan here, right? You want to bring them _here_. If you start taking them everywhere else, then who’s going to be bringing them _here?_ Here, Mac, is important. Because we are a _pub_. Okay, we’re not taking them somewhere _else_ , because we’re not a car service. We’re not Uber or Lyft or Meals on Wheels, okay. Yes, we’re going to be heavily borrowing from their business plan, minus the bullshit, but still, you know what I mean. I think you know what I mean. Mac, I need you to know what I mean, okay? Okay? We’re Paddy’s. Irish. _Pub_. Mac.”

Mac lets the words hang a microsecond, giving it that careful considerative look with his head all tilted up and eyes squinting shut, before he launches into a rebuttle. “Okay, I hear you, but what about the wasted time going out to get people when we could just be taking people out there, right, and spend, like, a minute or two going to the next location to bring them here? I don’t see the problem with that.”

“The problem?” Dennis does what Charlie thinks might be the clinical definition of the word _guffaw_ , blinking slowly to stamp out whatever rage is building in him. “Oh my god, Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“You moron, listen, alright?”

Charlie bats his eyes back and forth, lobbing his attention between them like a tennis ball, but it doesn’t stick. It’s just another thing that they’re doing because they’re bored. Charlie sighs, reaches past Mac’s elbow for a handful of lemon wedges—he was reaching for the olives and frowns when he gets the slimy little yellow pieces, but beggars can’t be choosers—and walks away. The lemon makes his hands smell nicer, but they don’t wash away the dirt and grime. He throws them into the trash, annoyed that the juice makes these little invisible cuts on his hands sting. He licks away the tart flavor and continues with his work.

He forgets to eat.

Does it matter? It feels like it shouldn’t. He’s been saying that all day, actually, so that might be….

He wonders if he can afford to go to that nice little café place next to the U (…niversity, his brain supplements helpfully, the lag long and insufferable in his own brain). The walk’s gonna take forever. He needs to take a bus and he fishes out his cellphone, catching several messages that make his stomach flip and fill with acid. Okay, he’s gonna guess on the bus time, okay. Okay, he just needs to go. Okay, Dennis and Mac are still arguing and Dee’s wherever and Frank’s wherever and nobody’s gonna spot him any cash right now because they rarely ever spot him any cash and okay those were like fifteen or seventy-three or god he didn’t see the number clearly but there were two digits to the number of new messages and okay.

Okay.

Charlie slips in behind the bar, gets right in the register, and fishes out a couple crumpled bills. He’s gone before the boys so much as blink, escaping into the hot sunlight. His body still feels cold. He squeezes his fists into his pockets, reimagining the sting from those stupid lemon wedges. He’s blinded by the stupid sun as he turns down the intimately familiar sidewalk only to stumble to the bus stop a block away.

His fingers feel like they’ve been tied to an electric fence for the better part of twenty minutes by the time Charlie gets enough air back into his body to even _consider_ checking his phone. He just needs the time for the bus, really. He stands near a crowd of three. His voice fails him, screeching out like broken butterflies, and he clears his voice before he tries again.

“H-Hey, this one going by Baltimore? Uh. Ave? The…Franklin Field?” He sounds too high pitched, even to himself, grating glass and shit. He coughs again and one of the strangers just gives him a little, “yeah, man,” before Charlie settles down, nodding to himself. “Cool-cool. Okay. Thanks.”

It’s 13.

Not 73.

73 would be insane, right? But 13 is still…. It’s still…a lot of messages.

The bus rumbles beneath them and, given some sort’ve unfortunate reprieve or dumb luck, he takes a seat on the left with another one empty next to him while he scrolls through his phone.

They’re all from Doc.

 

_Charlie where are you?_

_Charlie are you alright?_

_Please pick up._

_Pick up._

_Charlie, please pick up._

_Charlie darling im so sorry i didntmean to say what i did but it doesntex cuse that i did. can we talk?_

_I just would really like to know youre alright and you have somewhere to stay, just that much, please I m out of sorts worried you didnt find somewhere to go last night. You didnnt even take your jacket_

_I think you work tomorow could I come by with your mpermission_

_*with your permission_

_I’m sorry. Terrible spelling. I’m sure that wasn’t helpful to read. Could you please call me back when you get the chance._

_Would it be terrible if I phoned the bar? I just would really feel better if I knew you were alright. This isn’t about me. I’m being awfully selfish in this. I know. when I said those terrible things._

_I found your key this morning. Charlie, please phone me so I can get it to you. I hope you’ll come home._

_I am so very sorry darling_

 

That. Doesn’t.

That doesn’t seem right. Why is Doc apologizing to him? When he….

Charlie’s breathing faster, quick little intakes through his nose, the smoky stench curling up at the back of his throat. He reads them over again, mouthing the words out, inadvertently smiling at the incorrect letters he catches now. The bus shakes him, roles him down the street or snaps his head towards the unforgiving embrace of the wall beside him. He smacks the side where Mac punched him like three times and each time he winces, curls his hand up by his side, and then forgets and softens and goes back to the texts.

Doc is, like, really worried? About him?

There’s a familiar little set of buildings that barely catches Charlie’s eye just as they’re driving past it. He moans a protest and fishes himself out of the seat, struggling to get up to the front. They miss it, and it only adds, what, ten more minutes to his walk. Charlie keeps a firm hold on the cellphone, a first for him, really, because he always felt he could do with or without it, like, it just never bothered him if people couldn’t get a hold of him. Better, in fact, if they couldn’t. Thank god, right? Thank god Charlie’s so inaccessible to everyone who isn’t within walking distance or on route of the Philly bus line. Thank fucking Christ he doesn’t put on his stupid ringtone and misses all these important calls and texts from Doc like a fucking moron.

People really do part when a grown man with unkempt beard and shitty clothes just breaks down suddenly in front of them.

Charlie grits his teeth, squinting through his messy, beat-red watery eyes. He falls out of the bus with about as much grace as he used to get onto it and heads back north towards that place. Nice little café with a black canopy awning over the front and crisp gold letters over their window. They’re going there frequently enough that this one guy, Derrek, has learned their names and order and smiles at Doc and smiles at Charlie, too, but like as an afterthought or as a courtesy or something. Charlie doesn’t necessarily mind, because Doc puts his arm around Charlie’s shoulder and pushes his nose into Charlie’s cheek before he kisses it, this tiny-tiny little display of affection that still sometimes makes Charlie’s skin go red and warm.

When he steps inside, he’s cleaved by the familiar warm scent of coffee and baked goods and people neither better or worse than Charlie, when Charlie’s feeling like he is worth anything. There’s a scattering of these big old chairs, wingbacks, with leather and metal studs. Old wooden tables cut into circles or squares or that one triangle one in the corner are stained in mismatched hues as well. Nothing fits, but it fits together, this old rustic appeal. The light is low but not dark or impossible to see through. It’s warm but not overbearing. It’s perfect because it isn’t. Music plays. Customers are stacked up around the tables reading off their own phones and computers and tablets and even just, like, real books and shit.

Charlie realizes quickly that he’s breathing shallow again. He sucks in runner-like gasps while he strains to look at all the stranger’s faces. None of them match, of course, and this strange hope he has gurgling in his chest quickly slips its footing, stumbles, and dies at the top of his stomach.

Doc’s not here.

Not like Charlie called him to let him know. Or texted him. Or anything.

“Fuck.”

Charlie drops the word like a stone to the floor while scratching his head, his eyes, turning about and stepping back without even thinking to let a couple by so they can go order their drinks. It’s not like he wants to leave. The place has such a kind, happy smell to it that he feels like. Like, well…it’s like home. Really. And even if he’s so close to crying again, it’s comforting to just to be in here.

“ _Fuck_ , man, I shoulda…something,” he whispers harshly, his voice tight and painful.

He’s been waffling on the spot for five solid minutes. It doesn’t look good. Charlie does not look good. He doesn’t feel good either and in all that time he forgets he hasn’t eaten and that he really came all this way for the ham sandwich because they toast it and it has this mustard shit on it he likes. And because…he needs this place. Right now. He thinks. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, but fuck deserving right now, he’s here.

Charlie puts his hand in his pocket to get out the bills he took from the till and pulls out his phone instead, glancing at the time just because. Just because, honestly. Just because he wants it and he gets it and there’s a message on the front, fresh and baby new.

 

_Come outside._

 

That would seriously be concerning for any other individual, probably and _from_ any other individual, definitely. The words ignite both fear and giddiness in him. He almost skips to start walking, rushing by a stuffy dude in a black coat and an open, lost look on his face. Whatever problem this guy is having is fucking potatoes compared to Charlie’s rotten day. He doesn’t even say he’s sorry as he rushes past him and shoves out the front door.

For a second, nobody’s there. Not nobody. People are _there_ , but nobody looks like who he wants. Charlie’s face falls again, wondering if this is some really shitty prank or something. Someone went and hacked the phone? Is he in trouble?

Charlie starts in on this little gravelly sound of protest, holding up the screen as though it’s going to start talking for him and explain exactly what he needs when a familiar hand clasps around his wrist and spins him about. Suddenly his whole face is pressed in against the warm, sturdy chest of _home_. _This_ is _home._

Charlie hugs Doc like he could break him in half.

Doc is doing a bang-up job of returning the favor, actually. They’re both squeezing each other too tightly. It’s perfect.

It’s perfect even when Doc finally manages to pull back only so he can cup Charlie’s face, bending down to look at his eyes and wipe away a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Charlie flinches. He should have washed up. He starts in on an earnest apology that Doc swallows up with his lips, smashing them together. He thinks they almost clunk their teeth there. He thinks that’s okay, even if he doesn’t really deserve any of this.

“I was so worried about you,” Doc whispers, tugging Charlie back into his arms. “I’m so sorry, dear boy. I’m so sorry.”

The embrace is nice. And kissing Doc is _always_ nice. And he should count his ducks lucky—which are currently zero, so who’s counting, really—that Doc’s doing either of those to a filthy little dirtgrub like him, right? He moans as Doc cards his hair, something soft and safe only because those hands are soft and safe.

“Why’re you sorry?” Charlie finally cracks out. “I made a whole mess of your life, didn’t I?”

Doc tsks, standing up again and studying Charlie’s face.

“Don’t ever say that, Charlie. You’ve done no such thing.”

“But—”

“I wasn’t meant to be upset with you. Please forgive me?”

“But….”

“I was cruel and it was all unnecessary for me to say those things.”

“But.”

Charlie doesn’t need to be interrupted this time. He stops himself. His heads sorta dizzy, like huffing-paint dizzy without a bag or a can of spray paint or anything. He lets his eyes shut and hides his face against Doc’s shoulder for a second. Okay, longer than a second. Forever, if that’s okay. Doc has that same deep kind smell as the café, only a billion times better with all these hints of the apple crisp shampoo he likes and the special detergent he washes their clothes in and the cooked-buttery scent of his body.

Sturdy arms trap Charlie. Trap’s not the right word. Sturdy arms bring Charlie back, cradle him. He returns the favor, but he wants to do this lying down and he mumbles a pathetic request against Doc’s chest.

“Of course. Yes. Let’s go home.”

-

_Doc’s counter space is the thing kings probably dream of. There’s so much of it. Charlie feels a little spoiled and bites the very tip of his tongue between his lips, whipping himself around the kitchen. He’s going to make the most ultimate Grilled Charlies for dinner, a little surprise for Doc when he gets home from work. He saved up special for the ingredients, sneaking a few items onto the grocery list. Doc recognized the handwriting, duh, and he kissed Charlie’s forehead as he indulged him, which was so cute, but it’s all gonna pay off right now._

_Sometimes Charlie fiddles with the radio and puts on some music while he cooks, which isn’t as often as it used to be. Doc insists he likes cooking, but Charlie thinks Doc just didn’t really trust him or his “culinary palate.” Say what he wants, Charlie can make spaghetti and sauce. He can make a damn fine milk steak. And he can make this genuine classic of a sandwich._

_Four pans are already piled up in the sink. A fifth joins it, leaving one behind for Charlie to get the ratio just right. He has some peanut butter smeared down his chin, a little streak in his beard. He’s already sampled the chocolate syrup way too many times, making him feel a little giggly. Not buzzed. Sugar high, that’s it._

_One plate has a molten mess on it. Charlie’s not used to making his sandwich with these fancy cheeses and he may have bitten into four blocks of them to get a sample. And another sample. And then five more samples. His stomach hurts, but he’s still grinning, happily cooking away when the front door opens._

_“Welcome home!” Charlie calls out, screeching in his excitement. “Dude, you are so lucky, okay? Cause I have been slaving away for you, man, getting this juuuuuust—”_

_“What the_ fuck _.”_

_Charlie halts, a mouse spotted in the middle of a wide and empty kitchen. He swallows and slowly lowers one of the dirty dishes towards his belly button._

_“Hey.”_

_Doc swears. And it’s actually kinda cute when he does it, because he sounds like he wouldn’t dare dream of it, but he’s human, something he has assured Charlie multiple times. He shares “hells” and “damns” and “shit” with the best of them. But the way he speaks now isn’t just harmless expletives. It’s heavy and it comes hurtling in with the weight of this suppressed anger broiling up to the top._

_“I made dinner,” Charlie starts, swallowing and grinning right away to ease the weird tension that suddenly spider-webbed the kitchen. “Uh. Well, I mean, I’m_ making _dinner. It’s almost—”_

_“Look at this,” Doc says. His words still have that quiet dark undercurrent in them and he steps closer, hunched, dropping his briefcase heavily on the kitchen table. “This place is a mess. This…Charlie? What the fuck?”_

_“Well, I mean, I’ll clean it up.”_

_“Will you?” Doc shows his teeth for a second, reeling it in, but it’s already happened and it’s already in Charlie’s eyes and his head and his brain. “God, you’re_ filthy _, Charlie.”_

_“I.” Charlie touches his chest and leaves a smudge of chocolate sauce where his thumb grazes the fabric._

_“Christ, they were right, you’re just….” Doc sighs, swallowing a word that could be “untamed” or, worse, “unhinged.” It’s hard to tell. Charlie crunches his eyebrows together, pulling back. He holds up the sandwich again, tighter to his chest. “Listen. I don’t want to deal with this right now.”_

_“Deal with what?” Charlie asks, making himself match Doc’s angry tone because then it feels more even. “With me? Dude, I made you dinner.”_

_“You made a fucking_ mess _, Charlie, that’s what you made.”_

_“Yeah? I’d clean it up after we ate, obviously!”_

_“I’m not eating that abomination,” Doc says with a laugh that says it’s not funny at all and it’s actually really sad and maybe everything Charlie’s ever done is really sad and ugly and an_ abomination.

_“You didn’t.” Charlie steps forward and holds it out. “You didn’t even try it.”_

_“Charlie, I’ve had a very trying day at work, could you_ please _put that in the garbage where it belongs?” Doc wrinkles his nose and pulls up as Charlie shoves the plate under Doc’s face. “Don’t. Don’t touch me, you’re all sticky.”_

_“Try it!” Charlie shouts again and waves the plate, but the combination of burnt cheese, peanut butter, butter and chocolate syrup doesn’t sit well and Doc shouts something, possibly meaning to just get away from it. He flails in the moment, knocking Charlie’s hand, causing the plate to fly out of his hand and crash into the wall._

_“Look what you—you just! You’re filth—this whole place is filthy. I can’t deal with you, Charlie, bloody_ Christ _!” Doc shouts, all his words jumbling together in a mess of starts and stops that levels Charlie like a slap to the face._

You’re filth.

I can’t deal with you, Charlie.

_Lucky them, the pan on the stove has blackened with butter and the remnants of another sandwich. It begins to smoke and billow up in a black plume. Doc spots it and shouts again, shoving Charlie out of the way with the same disregard he had for the plate. Charlie watches after him, his eyes bugging out at the smoke. He moves towards the sink to grab the fire extinguisher when Doc flails his hand and gets all up in Charlie’s face._

_“Just get_ out _of here! Get out! You’ve done bloody well enough, Charlie Go!”_

 _He should stand to hear it a few more times. Really comprehend what Doc’s yelling, but he’s struggling with the fire extinguisher and getting the stove off and the sandwich is plainly ruined, obviously. Charlie’s out the front door before Doc slams the ruined pan int the sink, the sound drowning out Charlie’s disappearance. Charlie doesn’t know what Doc does afterwards. If he burnt his hand. If he’s relieved an_ untamed _or_ unhinged _or_ whatever abomination _is out of his apartment. Out of their home. His home. It doesn’t matter. He ruined something beautiful and perfect, hasn’t he? Like he was always supposed to ruin it, he thinks. Like, of course. Of course._

-

The shades are drawn, so it’s a bruised rosy color in the late afternoon when they enter. Charlie finally admitted he had a headache before they got to the apartment building, which earned him a gentle kiss to his forehead and promise of water and aspirin when they get inside. They are inside, and he decides he doesn’t even want that anymore. He reaches up and snags his green army jacket off the hook in the front hall, slipping into it instantly.

“Going somewhere?” Doc asks, smiling even if he sounds worried.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, but presses against him, mashing under his arm to get in close. “The bed, if that’s okay.”

“Do you have a migraine, dear boy?” Doc asks, gently brushing away some of Charlie’s hair from his forehead.

“Nah. Maybe.”

Charlie closes his eyes while Doc brushes him. Doc pulls back and is heading towards the kitchen just from the sound of his footsteps. Obviously, he is, because he’s just going to go get something, but it’s still terrifying. Charlie sucks in lungful of air, wondering if he’s gonna puke bile or something. He could probably puke up his whole skeleton right now and instead thumps his fists to his chest bone. This doesn’t feel good. Oh well. Charlie reluctantly follows. He remembers what the kitchen looked like last night, and he expects it to be stuck like that, permanently fixed to show what a fucking mess he is. He believes so hard that that’s exactly what he sees before he blinks, and the kitchen is clean and bright and immaculate in front of them.

“You.” Charlie pushes the word out too fast, too much, and sucks his lips back in together. “You cleaned it all up?”

Doc’s over by the pantry, holding one of the cabinet doors open. His arm is hanging at a gentle angle, his smile soft and a little sad. He was just reaching for the little while bottle of aspirin that he keeps up high for them, caught in the moment.

“Oh, Charlie,” Doc answers.

It sounds way too close to pity and Charlie bristles a bit, looking back towards the exit. Doc reaches for him. Outside wasn’t so great yesterday and he’s finally back where he wants to be, so he doesn’t bolt for the door. He shuffles towards Doc with his head bowed, moving until he gets a hand scratching gently through his messy beard and a little soft kiss to his forehead.

“Darling. Darling Charlie,” Doc says.

Charlie laughs at the term of endearment because it sounds way too babyish for him because he’s forty, right? But he sorta loves it, so he supposes that’s okay when it’s just them. Doc nuzzles his forehead for a moment, resting there. Charlie gets the impression he’s doing it to reacquaint himself with Charlie or maybe to collect himself.

He’s right with the second guess because Doc clears his throat before he continues.

“I’m sorry I told you to go. I thought you might just go to the living room, but I understand why you left.”

“I fucked up the kitchen,” Charlie answers.

“Oh, not that badly,” Doc says and continues to rub Charlie’s chin, petting his beard. “I…did have to throw out one of the pans. But it was the bad one.”

“The one with the red handle?”

“Precisely that one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. We both hated that one.”

“No, I mean.”

Charlie wants to pull back, to look up at him, but he also absolutely doesn’t want to do that because Doc’s got these perfect fingers and they feel so good on Charlie’s skin and beard and he decides to stay put this time.

“I mean, I’m sorry. I was trying to surprise you. I did a really shitty job at it.”

“You didn’t.” Charlie’s about to protest, but Doc hugs him tighter and slots his chin over Charlie’s head. “You didn’t. You were being so perfectly you and I would very much hate if you were ever not you.”

“You’d like it better if I was cleaner.”

“I’d like it better only if you wanted that,” Doc answers. “I don’t want to change you, Charlie. I want you to be happy with who you are and do what pleases you because it pleases me; I was so stupid to listen to anyone try and convince me otherwise.”

“Huh?”

Doc laughs again. It’s still kinda sad and quieter, but it doesn’t feel sad at Charlie this time. It’s bitter but the frustrations smooth out differently. Maybe it’s because Doc’s hand smooths out over his cheek and skates the delicate line of skin just beneath his eye without meaning to.

“Just idle chatter from other faculty. You remember the gentleman from the Adult Neurodevelopment clinic in the department?” Doc is already pantomiming his height, just a little taller than Doc is, and he’s just about to motion a beard dangling down from his own chin when Charlie perks up.

“The redhead?”

“That’s the one,” Doc says, inadvertently touching the tip of Charlie’s nose for guessing correctly. “Mouthy bastard.”

“He can’t hold his liquor for shit,” Charlie answers, recalling the sight of the redhead—William, maybe? Riley? Paul?—at a faculty party that Charlie had attended as Doc’s guest. They had eaten so many little finger foods with so many different cheeses and drank a few glasses of wine and danced on a balcony together with Charlie humming for Doc. They’d also seen the Adult Neurodeyaddayadda dude blow chunks over the balcony beneath them after two glasses of wine and probably a stomach virus, though neither of them really knew that part.

“He cannot. He also can’t hold his inept opinions to himself. Because he got the grant for—” Doc takes a deep breath and settles back, letting the tension out of his shoulders. “He’s an ass,” Doc finally says pointedly. “Is what I mean. An ass with too much ego.”

“He trying to stir up shit at work for you, baby?” Charlie asks, daring with the pet name because it makes Doc also go all warm and blushy. It works this time too, even if he laughs it off.

“He is,” Doc says, mock-pouting. “And he’s playing dirty, making comments about my home life when he doesn’t know a damn thing, does he?”

“He sounds jealous,” Charlie offers. Doc lifts his chin again and hums.

“Maybe he is. That must be it.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” Charlie agrees. They both smile hard enough to make crinkles form at the corner of their eyes and Charlie gently reaches up to pet Doc’s cheek, to return the favor. “I didn’t eat today and my head is seriously killing me right now. Can we go lay down?”

“Goodness.” Doc’s both holding Charlie closer and attempting to step away to go prepare him something. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? We walked here, I could have gotten us a Lyft instead.”

Charlie giggles, not because of why Doc thinks he is. He shakes his head and finds Doc’s hands. “Worry about that later. I just wanna lay down. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” Doc says softer and helps him thread their fingers together. He looks softly down at Charlie. “I really am sorry for what I said….”

“Apology accepted, dude,” Charlie says, because he knows Doc needs to hear it, so he’ll _stop_ apologizing. He doesn’t need to, Charlie thinks. He just needs to lay down and snuggle. That’s apology enough. It’s enough to just be here where he belongs.

The bed is made, and he worries a moment about messing it up, but then he’s flopped down on it, face first, the pillow swallowing his whole face. It’s a good pillow. Both pillows are good. They don’t have to fight over them or worry about blood stains or steak knives or shit, literal or otherwise. Charlie holds the pillow and Doc’s hand, forcing him to climb into bed with him. Even if it’s just now. A little while. Because they can repeat this again later, tonight, when they go to bed. God, sleeping in a bed is so good.

“Oh,” Doc says softly and leans closer, kissing the corner of Charlie’s eyes where he’s started crying again. “That’s alright, dear. You’re home.”

Charlie nods, and shifts to put his face against Doc’s lap. The clean fabric is heady and perfect. It smells perfect. The whole place does. Because all of it smells like home. Doc pets his back until Charlie dozes off, comforted by the fact that he’ll get to wake up in an hour or so to something cooking and an affectionate twig of a boyfriend on the love-seat who might go take a shower with him or might not and that’s okay. It’s okay. It’s definitely more than okay. It’s perfect.


End file.
